For half a second I consider pretending I don’t know Corey, but I realize it’s probably not a great idea.

Especially with the way he’s smirking.

Corey tips his chin up. “Hey, Queenie.”

“Hello, Corey. It’s been a long time.”

My dad looks between us, head whipping back and forth a few times. Sort of like a cat following a digital mouse on an iPad screen. “You two know each other?”

“We went to college together a long time ago. My first year.” I sound like a robot, but I’m sort of freaking out.

I never thought I’d have to see Corey up close again. Sure, I knew that I’d see him eventually during the season at a game, but he was supposed to be playing for Philly, so I’d only have to see his last name scrawled across his jersey. Not his stupid, smug face every single damn day. Minus my rare days off.

And there’s no way I’ll be able to keep this from Kingston. I realize that it doesn’t look great. Not at all.

“So you’re working for your dad now, huh?” Corey asks.

To most people it might seem like he’s trying to make polite conversation. But I know better. He’s judging me. Because I’m still relying on my daddy to help me survive and he makes millions of dollars a year to shoot a piece of rubber across a slab of ice.

I realize it’s a lot harder than that oversimplification, but again, I’m not excited about seeing him. It means I’m mentally lashing out, because I can’t actually lash out at all. I have to be professional.

“It’s a temporary position. My father’s previous assistant had to take early retirement and I was asked to help out, and since I know hockey, it seemed like a good fit.”

“You definitely know the ins and outs of hockey players,” Corey says, nodding solemnly.

That might sound like a compliment, but really he’s insulting me and insinuating that I’m a stick chaser. And now that I’m working for my dad and dating a member of the team, that’s exactly how it looks.

“Corey needs to complete some paperwork, and it would be great if you could show him around the arena.” My dad usually gives directives with authority, but right now he seems uncertain.

I turn my fake smile on him. “Of course. I’ll need to set up a tablet for him, but if you want the forms completed today, I can see if you have paper copies in your office.”

It’s my way of getting my dad alone for a minute so I can explain and, hopefully, set his mind at ease. Although I’ll be adjusting the amount of information I intend to share, because he sure as hell doesn’t need to know all the details. I’ll give him the bare-bones story and hope like hell Corey is on the same page when it comes to leaving the past where it should stay: buried under a pile of red plastic cups in a college frat house.

I brush past Corey into my dad’s office. He tells Corey to make himself comfortable and follows behind me. My whole body is vibrating with anxious energy, and I’m sweating. I take a deep breath as I turn to face my dad.

“What’s the history between you two?” He thumbs over his shoulder at the closed door.

I have to work hard not to fidget like I usually do when I’m nervous, which I very much am right now. I busy myself by opening his filing cabinet so I can look for the paper copies I made of all the initial paperwork. “It’s nothing to worry about. We dated briefly my first year of college.”

My dad crosses his arms. “How briefly, and which college?”

I’ve been to a few over the years. “Just a couple of months. During my undergrad, when I was taking art and psych.” I transferred closer to home the second semester because I’d said I was homesick. He doesn’t know that Corey was the real reason for the switch. “It’s not a big deal, and it was a long time ago. It’ll be fine. I’m just surprised, since I had no idea he was even a trade option.”

He runs his hand through his hair, lips pursed and his eyes narrowed, as if he’s trying to see inside my brain and find out what’s really going on. “I would’ve told you if I hadn’t been bound by an NDA.”

I wave the comment away and pull a bunch of forms, checking to make sure there are extra copies before I close the filing cabinet. If I’d known about this in advance, I would have had the tablet already set up for him. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.” I’m not entirely sure that’s true. It depends a lot on whether Corey can keep his trap shut. It’s not something he’s been notoriously good at over the years.

He’s an absolute pain in the ass on the ice, always pushing the opposition’s buttons and generally being a douchebag. He was the same off the ice, and I’m not sure much has changed. But he’s one of the best players in the league, so he gets away with a lot of shit.

I don’t even want to know how much money they must have offered to get him to come to Seattle. I also don’t want to think about how this will change the team dynamic. I can’t see Bishop liking this guy or keeping his mouth shut if he happens to pull out his douche card, which is highly likely.

“You’re sure you’re okay to show him around?”

“Of course. It’s my job.” I flash what I hope is a seminormal smile.

“That’s not what I mean. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It was six years ago, Dad. Besides, doesn’t he have a pregnant fiancée or something?” I accidentally stumbled on an article a month ago on some hockey site or other. There was a picture of him and some woman in a supertight dress showing off her baby belly and her giant rock.

“He does, yes.”

“So he’s moved on, and so have I.” I shuffle all the papers into a file folder and print Corey’s name across the top, internally cringing as I remember how I used to make the O into a heart. But then, at eighteen one does cheesy things like that. “We shouldn’t keep the superstar waiting longer than necessary.” I close the folder and tuck it under my arm, then think better of it, since I’m sweaty.

My dad seems reluctant to let me leave the office. “We’ll talk more about this on the way home.”

“Sure. Sounds good.” It actually sounds the exact opposite of good, but I’m not going to tell him that.

Corey’s lounging in one of the waiting room chairs, long legs stretched out and crossed over each other, phone in his hand, smarmy smirk firmly in place. I’m sure he’s going through one of his social media accounts, looking at all the comments from the women who want to hump him and the would-be hockey stars who want to be him.

“All set, Corey. Would you prefer paperwork first or a tour of the facilities?” My face feels stiff with how fake my smile is.

He clicks away on his phone for an inappropriately long time while my dad and I stand there, waiting for him to acknowledge us and respond. Finally he shuts down his phone and slips it in his pocket. “I’ll take the private tour first.” While the words themselves aren’t inappropriate, his tone is slick and slimy.

I’m pretty sure I hear my dad’s teeth grind together beside me. Or maybe they’re mine.

“Great. We’ll be back in a bit.” I do an about-face and head for the hallway, not checking to see if he’s following. “I’ll show you the gym first, and then you can tour the locker room and the rink.”

After several long seconds of silence, I finally give in and glance over my shoulder. Corey’s phone is back out and he’s thumb typing away, shambling along like he has all the time in the world and I’m absolutely irrelevant.

Which I suppose I sort of am and honestly probably always have been. You’re just a warm hole to fill, like the rest of them. Those were the words he once used, while drunk, after I caught him cheating on me. In the bed we shared. With some puck bunny he’d met by the keg in the living room of the frat house we were shacking up in.

Obviously my taste in men wasn’t great at eighteen. And truthfully, until Kingston my poor taste was an unfortunate trend that extended throughout college. It’s sad, really, considering I have such a great father, and logistically I should have been able to make better choices when it came to men and dating. I’ll blame low self-esteem and insecurity for all the less-than-stellar boyfriends. And possibly flat keg beer.

I don’t bother to slow down or look over my shoulder again to see how far behind he’s fallen until I reach the gym. Unfortunately, it’s empty, since the team has long since finished its preskate workout.

“I remember when you used to come by the college gym to see if I was working out.” He’s right behind me. So close that I can feel his breath on my temple.

I open the door forcefully and elbow him in the side, smiling at his oof. Letting go of the door so he has to catch it or risk getting his fingers caught between it and the jamb, I step inside and create some space between us.

“First of all, you don’t get to stroll down memory lane with me. Ever.”

“Come on, Queenie, we had some good times.”

“I can probably count all of them on one hand. And that time I found you banging a bunny in our bed pretty much cancels out every single damn one of them.”

“I was drunk.”

“As if that’s an excuse.”